


Tabula Rasa

by crazybeagle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Demon Blood Addiction, Episode: s06e15 The French Mistake, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Post-Hell, Psychological Trauma, allusions to torture, dean and sam mocking jensen and jared's acting careers, the great wall of sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:40:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazybeagle/pseuds/crazybeagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Somehow he was floating free. And it wasn't water anymore. It was blood...it was sulfur...it was fire. And he was drowning in it." Coda to "The French Mistake," written for a prompt by the lovely phreakycat for one of ohsam h/c comment fic memes over on Livejournal last year. I don't want to give away the plot but the request was essentially for some heavy angst pertaining to this episode and some unexpected consequences of inter-dimensional travel for Sam. Didn't think it was possible, but when I saw the prompt, my brain went to that "challenge: accepted" place that seems to write so many of my cruelest fics for me. </p>
<p>And a thank-you to phreakycat for having been a stupendous beta on this one, as well!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean went to bed that night exhausted and irritable. Exhausted because what had been only a split second of actual time had translated into _days_ in that whole parallel-universe-place-thing. Dean wanted to put it out of his mind for good, but Sam, being Sam, hadn't been able to help speculating. Had that world been an actual parallel dimension? And if so, how many others could exist? If not, then had it just been an unbelievably complicated construct of the angels on Cas's and Balthazar's side's design? Sure, it'd have to be a damn good one to be able to fool one of Raphael's henchmen, but Dean wouldn't put it past them. Not after his and Sam's realities had been screwed around with so many times by various angels—Zechariah, Gabriel, Michael, and Lucifer—but to be honest, he didn't know and he didn't care, and he sure didn't want to dwell on it.  
  
Because, soap operas?  
  
Seriously?  
  
He could puke.  
  
Add to that the fact that the topic of _angels_ was one that made him want to put his fist through the nearest wall. Specifically, one stupid angel who couldn't seem to decide just whose side he was on and apparently couldn't spare two seconds to explain to him and Sam a damn thing about what he was up to, and _then_ had the nerve to risk their hides without their knowledge, and all for a freaking _diversion..._  
And to cap it all off, Bobby wasn't exactly thrilled when he came back from the liquor store to find his window smashed to bits. Not that he could really blame him for that, but _still._  
  
At any rate, Sam seemed to be taking this all in stride a lot better than he was, even if he'd gotten quieter as the night went on. Once he'd exhausted all his parallel universe theories, he'd turned in kind of early, muttering something about a headache. That wasn't surprising—he'd been having pretty bad ones on and off ever since…well, ever since that night in Bristol. But now that he thought about it, he didn't remember Sam having any while they'd been stuck back in TV Land, which was odd. It made Dean a bit edgy, and he turned in not long after Sam. He fully intended to barge into Sam's guest room if the lights weren't turned off and make up some lame excuse about needing to borrow toothpaste, or poke his head in the door if the lights were out just to make sure he really was just sleeping…  
  
…And not locked inside his mind again.  
  
Back behind the Wall.  
  
Because even though Sam had promised him over and over again after Bristol that he wouldn't let himself wander back down memory lane again, Dean saw right through that. He knew exactly what every second of loaded silence from his brother over the past few weeks really meant. Sam was listening to him, but just barely, and probably still making himself miserable over being forbidden to know exactly what Sammybot 2.0 had been up to for a year and a half. What he'd _done_.  
  
Who he'd killed.  
  
He wasn't saying he wouldn't be going insane if he was in Sammy's place right now, but at the same time, why could Sam not get it through his thick skull that all that time it _hadn't been him_? How could he possibly hope to "set things right," anyway, even if he could get his memories back unscathed? When people were killed, the damage was done. Understanding and forgiveness weren't typically part of the package. He'd hoped that Brenna Dobbs would've shown him that.  
  
And absolution never raised the dead, anyways.  
  
Not that Sam cared.  
  
Or seemed to understand, at least until after Bristol, that those memories would literally kill him.  
  
Though he was sickened to think that during Sam's periods of withdrawn silence he was now reliving that glimpse of the Hell locked away in his head, he hoped Sam finally _got_ it now.  
  
But he wasn't so sure.  
  
A little voice in Dean's head, a voice that Dean steadfastly ignored, told him that it was only a matter of time. After all, even though Sam had taken the bait to go to Bristol in the first place, it wasn't as though he'd had to actively try to bring the memories back. Who knew how long it'd be before something set him off again?  
  
The lights were on when he did walk past the room. He knocked twice on the door, and then deciding it didn't matter much, barged in.  
  
"Hey."  
  
Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away from the door, dressed in old sweats. His computer was open on the bed next to him, but it appeared as though he was staring at the floor. He turned when the door opened. "Hey." He looked worn out and a little pale.  
Dean gestured vaguely at Sam's bag sitting on the dresser. "Came to grab the toothpaste, think you stuck it in your bag…" he trailed off, knowing Sam wasn't buying it, and frowned. "You okay?"  
  
Sam shrugged. "Headache. It's no big deal." He cocked an eyebrow. "But thanks for knocking this time."  
  
"You're welcome." Dean didn't even bother looking apologetic—since Bristol he'd made Sam reluctantly agree to a _don't-lock-me-out-of-any-room-you're-in_ policy, and he wasn't at all sorry.  
  
Sam smiled wryly. "And the toothpaste's in _your_ bag."  
  
"Huh. Must've missed it there." He leaned against the dresser. "How bad?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Headache. How bad?"  
  
Sam shrugged again.  
  
Oh. So _that_ bad. "You take anything for it?"  
  
"Was about to."  
  
"Take the ones I gave you."  
  
Sam gave him a wary look. "What's in them?"  
  
"Good stuff." And that was true. _Really_ good stuff…  
  
Legality be damned.  
  
"Dean."  
  
Dean held up his hands. "Alright, fine, Mr. Surgeon General. Take 'em or leave 'em. All I'm saying is, they'll help."

"Okay." Sam sounded mildly amused. "Thanks."  
  
"Sure." He pointed at the open laptop. "Y'know, if you got a headache, that's not gonna help things."  
  
"Yeah, well…couldn't sleep," Sam said sheepishly. "Figured if I wasn't going to bed anyway, might as well poke around, check for omens. See what this 'Mother of All' thing's up to."  
  
Dean crossed his arms. "That can wait."  
  
"Well I was kinda looking up news stuff, too," he said, glancing at the laptop, which Dean saw was opened up to something that looked BBC-esque. "Still trying to catch up and all. Like that Japan thing…" He shook his head. "God."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Then with a jolt, something occurred to him. "Sam, I don't think you oughta be looking that kind of stuff up right now."  
  
Sam blinked. "What? Why?"  
  
"Because finding out that Mel Gibson is a douchebag who may or may not also be possessed is one thing, but accidentally pulling some random CNN story from last year about a bunch of shady deaths and disappearances? That could be a case you worked, easy. And that'd be bad, Sam. Real bad."  
  
Sam scoffed. "So what, I gotta stop watching the news now? Yeah, that's practical."  
  
"Sam."  
  
He rolled his eyes. "I'll be careful, alright?"  
  
"Man, what are you? Fifteen?" Not that he wasn't always a bit on the bitchy side when he wasn't feeling well.  
  
"Well what do you expect me to do here?"  
  
Good question, really. He sighed. "Just go to bed, okay?" Before the words left his mouth, he could just _hear_ what Sam's fifteen-year-old response to that would've been— _Make me._  
  
But this wasn't fifteen-year-old-Sammy, and _this_ Sammy looked too drained to argue. He just nodded and shut the laptop. "It's just a normal headache, Dean," he added, but not so much in argument as it was in reassurance.  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Pretty sure."  
  
Dean felt a knot loosen in his chest at that, but still… _Pretty sure_ wasn't sure enough.  
  
"Okay, well…try to get some sleep anyway, alright? We got a window to replace tomorrow. And you look like crap."  
  
"Gee, thanks."  
  
“Anytime.” 

***

_Deep breaths. Watch the ceiling fan. One rotation, two, three…_

_Not helping._

Not that Sam thought it would.

He’d gone to bed not long after Dean left, finding it utterly useless to try to focus on anything anymore. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, wincing as his throbbing skull protested, and grabbed blindly for the water bottle he’d left on the bedside table, only to find—oh, right—he’d drank it all. His throat and chest were starting to burn, and while this was certainly not an unfamiliar sensation, it was usually one he could ignore. And he had a feeling he knew why he couldn’t tonight.

Right, then. Water.

For the third time that night, he hauled himself out of bed, out the door, down the shadowy hallway, and to the bathroom to refill the bottle. Quiet as he tried to be, the ridiculously creaky floorboards in this house meant he was probably waking Dean up every time he walked past the door to his room, as light a sleeper as Dean tended to be. He felt kinda bad about that.

But not bad enough to not do it.

Two minutes later and he’d downed a third bottle, stumbled over to the tub, sat down on the edge, and leaned his sore head against the cool tile of the shower wall. The lights were out, and there was only weak moonlight filtering in through the tiny bathroom window, but his eyes were shut tightly against even that.

Damn…

Despite the oppressive feeling of fullness in his stomach, his mouth felt papery dry, his throat and his chest quite literally aching with thirst. Not that any of this hadn’t happened before, and it had felt much worse than this in the past, certainly worse than just obnoxiously keeping him awake. Of course, when it had been _that_ bad, early on after killing Lilith and springing Lucifer free, Dean had been there to see it happening and made sure he wasn’t alone to face it. But the reasons _why_ it was happening were far too close for comfort for both of them, and it usually earned him nothing but stony silence out of Dean until it ended. So he’d tried to mention it as little as possible until he was able to deal with it and learn to ignore it, which had taken a good month or two. Not like he hadn’t deserved it, anyway.

Finally forcing his eyes open, he noticed that, in his haste to get to the sink, he hadn’t bothered closing the door.

And chances were, if he left it open, Dean was going to find him sitting here. And it wasn’t like it’d be a bad thing to have him here, but he’d freak out more than he already probably was, and besides, Sam didn’t want to get nagged into going back to bed. Right now he thought he’d prefer quiet to the sound of anybody’s voice, anyway. He gritted his teeth and then lurched to his feet, stumbling over to the door and pushing it shut. He turned and was about to go sit back on the tub again when something on the sink’s counter caught his eye.

The pills Dean had given him. Sam blinked in confusion at them; they hadn’t been sitting here last time he’d come to get water. _And_ he could’ve sworn they’d been in his bag last time he’d checked. Which meant two things: one, Dean was awake right now, and just a hell of a lot quieter than Sam was on creaky floorboards (or Sam had been too preoccupied to notice if he was making any noise, which was likely), and two, he’d somehow nabbed the pills from Sam’s bag sometime that night, probably when he’d come in to make him go to bed.

Sam almost laughed. Why was he not at all surprised…

 Well, at least Dean was attempting to give him some space this time.

He stared at the bottle for a few seconds, thinking. _Was_ this one of “those” headaches? He hadn’t thought so at first; either an unfortunately timed normal headache, like he’d said, or just a side effect of the thirst.

But…

In the hours following their return from…well, wherever it was they’d been, two things had slowly crept up on him, two things he now realized that had been completely absent during his stint as an “actor”—for one, all the remnants of the blood cravings, which was surprisingly liberating, even if it was something he barely noticed anymore in _this_ world anyway. But now that he thought about it, the weird sort of pressure and tightness he felt at times in his head—it was hard to put into words, but the best comparison he could come up with was the cramped feeling associated with sinus issues—had also been gone.

_No Wall._

He didn’t get _how_ there hadn’t been a Wall—after all, it was still _him_ , in the body of some random actor or not—but that was the only explanation he could think of. But maybe Dean had been right. A world with no Heaven, and no Hell.

No Hell.

That’d have been nice, wouldn’t it.

There was something written on the side of the bottle, messily and in Sharpie.

_Take 2._

He grinned. _Thanks, Dean._ He picked up the bottle, opened it, and palmed two pills. _Eh, what the hell._ Couldn’t hurt, right?

Not that it was nearly so bad as it had been after—well, after Bristol, but he didn’t need anything, even something as stupid as a headache, lowering his defenses against a repeat of what had happened there. As if needing the blood wasn’t screwing with him enough. Because who was to say it was just memories that could trigger another episode? For Dean, after he’d gotten back, it had been the oddest things that would set him off and make him go weirdly quiet for hours at a time—tastes, smells, sometimes physical pain after getting roughed up during a hunt. Once, it was the sight of a little girl, five or six years old, standing on a street corner outside some diner they’d stopped at. Dean had never said why.

And if Sam had no conscious memory of his own Hell, there was no telling what could make him tick. Well, aside from the obvious—remembering everything he’d been up to for the past year and a half, which seemed to have taken its toll on the Wall. And where had _that_ gotten him?

Burning.

Trapped, alone, and _burning_.

Bristol had been weeks ago, but he still lost sleep over that. Just thinking about it now made his overfull stomach threaten to revolt.

But that didn’t mean that Dean was right, that he was somehow better off not knowing anything about being soulless. Especially if even half the things Cas told him he’d done were true.

It was going to be hard line to walk, anyways.

He shook his head and took the pills.

Well, Dean was right about these, he realized a few minutes later. “Effective” was definitely the best word for them. The pain soon ebbed away, leaving behind a lingering feeling of tension, but it was manageable. That much was better, but he still felt completely parched, despite the fact that he knew he’d throw it all back up if he tried to drink anything else. Radiating from his chest and throat, it made his entire body feel uncomfortably hot, and his skin grew sticky with sweat. Eventually, he found himself sitting in the empty tub, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, trying to will the coldness of the old tile to seep through his skin. One hand was gripping the side of the tub, hard.

This was stupid, he thought. Just because he’d been hitchhiking in another body for a few days didn’t mean it should be this hard for him to come back to his own. It was pathetic, really. It wasn’t like he was detoxing or anything, so why was he letting this bother him so much?

And he really didn’t want Dean to find him asleep in the tub tomorrow morning. That is, if he slept at all.

_Suck it up._

And he tried, he really did. Tried to stand up.

And he probably would have managed it, too, if it wasn’t for the tremors racking his limbs, or the feeling of being smothered by a heavy blanket of heat.

He gave it up, and fell back into the tub, trembling. He’d give himself a few minutes.

When “a few minutes” had come and gone, his resolve had crumbled completely, and he blinked up at the dark, mildewed ceiling, miserable. He wasn’t going anywhere, not for awhile. Not unless Dean or Bobby came to find him.

His eyes drifted down to the showerhead, ancient and grungy with limescale.

And suddenly he had an idea.

A pretty dumb idea, yes, but right now it seemed like the most appealing thing in the world.

And it wasn’t as though Dean was going to come barging into the room if he thought Sam was just taking a shower.

With far more effort than it should have taken, Sam lifted his leg up, using his foot to turn on the tap. Freezing water immediately doused his other foot, which was wedged under the faucet, and he sighed in relief. A minute later he’d managed to pull up the stopper-thing to turn on the shower, and his eyes drifted shut of their own accord as the frigid spray steadily soaked through his clothes, soothing his burning chest. Right about then, it was the most beautiful feeling in the world, and despite the fact he hadn’t thought he could drink anymore, he opened his mouth. He must’ve sweated it all out by now or something, because he once more felt like he could down this entire tub’s volume in water.

And at first it felt great, drops of cool, if slightly metallic-flavored, well water hitting his tongue and running down his throat.

But then something changed. The drops suddenly felt hot on his skin and in his throat, then burning, then scalding. He tried to gag, his eyes tearing up, but found he couldn’t—it was like somebody had suddenly forced a power hose down his throat, and he could only gulp it down, frantically trying to breathe. Blindly, he kicked out with his foot, trying to stop the water or at least make it cold again, but his muscles wouldn’t work properly.

And then he was completely submerged in it, all his nerves screaming as his skin was seared, helpless as it flowed into his nose and ears and bit at his eyes. He couldn’t feel the sides or bottom of the tub anymore; somehow he was floating free.

And it wasn’t water anymore.

It was blood….it was sulfur…it was fire…

And he was drowning in it.

He tried to scream, he tried and tried, but as far as he could tell nothing was coming out, and every time the stuff filled his lungs up more and more. His mind became hazy, and he fought to stay conscious, limbs flailing uselessly.

He was going to die here, he was sure of it, and in Bobby’s stupid fucking _bathtub_ , of all places…

Suddenly he felt hands grabbing at his clothes. In panic, he struggled to get away, but it was impossible when the world was boiling all around him.

The hands grabbed him under the armpits, and he was vaguely aware of being dragged up, and up, until…

He was in Bobby’s bathtub again, cold water still beating down on him, and Dean leaning over him, hair dripping wet.

He gasped, then coughed a few times, surprised to find that his scalded lungs were actually clear. A second later, the water stopped, and he was being hauled upright. Dean was talking to him, and he sounded scared, but Sam was far beyond the point of comprehending what he was actually saying.

Dean was kneeling in front of him in the tub, holding Sam up by the shoulders. Suddenly and inexplicably cold, Sam shivered against his sodden clothes. Dean was still talking, shaking him slightly, and Sam knew Dean was probably trying to get him to look at him, talk to him, anything that would somehow communicate what was wrong.

Sam tried to say something, but all that came out was a pitiful strangled sound, torn from his throat. And then another, and another. It took him a moment to realize they were sobs.

A moment later and Dean wasn’t trying to hold him upright anymore. Sam slumped forward, boneless, still shivering. Those pathetic, involuntary sobs were now muffled by the wet fabric of Dean’s shirt, and he was vaguely aware of a steadying hand on his back and a litany of what sounded like _it’s-okay-you’re-okay-it’s-okay_ coming from somewhere near his ear.

Sam gulped and managed to nod, feeling oddly lightheaded as though he’d been hyperventilating.

“It’s okay, Sammy…I’m here, I gotcha…hey, you’re okay…shh, you’re okay…”


	2. Chapter 2

“You wanna tell me what happened?” Dean had dragged the room’s one chair up next to the bed, and was now focused on his bundled-up, feverish little brother, trying not to sound as frantic as he felt. He’d had to haul Sam out of the bathtub and practically drag him back down the hall and to his own room. Sam had seemed too out of it to be embarrassed by the fact that Dean had had to change him out of his wet clothes. He had just come back from getting changed himself, and Sam was exactly where Dean had left him, though a bit less delirious now.

Sam looked up from his lap, where he’d been picking restlessly at loose threads in the old quilt that covered him. His cheeks were flushed against too-pale skin, eyes bloodshot, wet hair sticking to his forehead. “I don’t really know what happened.” His voice was hoarse, and Dean guessed it was because of all that awful gagging. 

Dean frowned. “Okay, well for starters, can you tell me what the hell you were doing in the bathtub?” 

Sam looked down again. “Felt crappy.”

“So you took a shower with your clothes on.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Felt really crappy.”

“Crappy how?”

Sam gave up on the quilt threads, and his fingers drummed rapidly, nervously against his knee. “Hot,” he admitted. “Dizzy.”

“So you laid down in the tub.”

“Looks like it.” Sam still wouldn’t look at him.

“Uh…why?” Dean certainly didn’t get how sleeping in a tub would help anything, but for some reason he was instantly reminded of the few times when he’d found Sam as a really young kid curled up asleep in the backseat of the Impala, whenever he’d had trouble sleeping in the bed of a motel or rental house. Maybe it was the same principle here.

“I don’t know. Felt better, I guess.”

Yup, definitely the same principle.

Sam glanced over at his duffle on the dresser. “Hey, uh, did we bring anything to drink?”

“What do you want?” Dean asked warily. 

“What do you think?”

Dean shook his head. “No. Dude, you’re sick.”

“’M not sick.”

“You have a fever.”

His eyes darkened. “Doesn’t mean I’m sick.” 

“Uh, yeah it does. In fact, I’d say a fever is kind of a defining characteristic of ‘sick,’ Sam.” 

Sam gave him a tired glare.

“Okay, fine. Whatever. But come on, man, look at yourself. You have a drink now, you’re just gonna feel like shit.”

“I have a...” He cleared his throat. “Uh, I got a bad taste in my mouth, is all. Wanna get rid of it.”

“Then I’ll go raid Bobby’s M&M stash for you or something,” Dean said, exasperated. Would it kill Sam not to be so damn evasive all the friggin’ time? “If you still got a headache, drink’s only gonna make it worse. You know that.”

“I don’t have a headache anymore.” His fingers absently twisted and yanked at one frayed drawstring of his hoodie.

“That’s good.” Then something occurred to him. “Wait, did you take the pills?”

A pause, and then Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

Dean’s insides went icy cold at that. “What?”

“Yeah. Found ‘em in the bathroom.”

“How many?”

“Two, like you said.”

“You’re _sure_.”

“Yes.”

“Positive?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sam repeated irritably.

“Okay.” His shoulders sagged a little in relief at that. At least whatever happened earlier hadn’t been because he’d accidentally OD’d or something. But something else occurred to him. “Then what the hell are you asking for a drink for, Sam?” he asked, anger mounting. “You trying to off yourself or something?”

“What?” Sam looked genuinely confused for a second, then he blinked. “Oh. Right.”

“Well?”

“No—” He reached up and rubbed his eyes. “No, you’re right. Yeah. Never mind. I just… forgot, is all.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed his eyes shut, looking both exhausted and somehow in pain. “And I’m thirsty,” he added quietly.

“Well if you’re thirsty, we’ll get you water, okay? Liquor’s not gonna help you there.”  
Sam scoffed. “Yeah, neither is water…”

“What do you mean, ‘neither is water’?”

He finally looked up, looking tired and bitter and defeated. “I know it’s not gonna help, because I’ve been chugging water all night long, and Dean, I’m _thirsty_.”

“What—”

But Sam just kept staring at him. 

And then Dean got it.

“Oh,” he whispered. “I gotcha.”

_ Shit. Shitshitshit… _

“Yeah.” Sam’s hands fell still at last.

“You okay?” Dean asked.

Sam snorted.

Dean grimaced. “Yeah, stupid question, huh. Well…” he floundered for something helpful to say, and tried not to think about how screwed they could quite possibly be if this kept up. Like they needed _that_ to deal with on top of the Great Wall of Sam. “You got any idea why? Like, why it’s happening now? I mean, you haven’t had any demon blood since…you know…” 

“Yeah, I know.”

“So like I said, why’s it happening now? It can’t be some freaky withdrawal thing then, right? You haven’t had any in your system, so why are you lying in a bathtub and gagging on shower water at three in the morning?” He tried to keep his voice from shaking, but he couldn’t help seeing it all over again as he said it: Sam gasping and choking, his entire body convulsing, limbs flailing wildly against a spray of icy water. 

“So that’s what happened, huh?” Sam muttered distantly. 

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember.”

A pause.

Then, “How’d you find me?”

“Well, I was up anyway…”

“I noticed,” Sam said, smiling weakly.

“Yeah, well , just because you’ve got all the stealth of a drunk rhino when you’re trying to sneak around late at night...”

“Sorry.” 

“No, you’re not.” Dean grinned, but it faded fast as he spoke. “I heard the shower going, and I was just gonna knock and make sure you were okay. Barely heard it over the water, but it sounded like you were choking on something, and you didn’t answer, so yeah. You were…” he swallowed. “It was bad, Sam. It looked like—”

“Bristol,” Sam supplied dully.

“Uh, yeah.” Dean cleared his throat and looked down. “ _Was_ it like Bristol?”

“No,” Sam said. “Not as long. Just…just a few minutes.”

“Did you see anything?”

_ That  _ shut Sam down really fast, which Dean should’ve expected. He shook his head, suddenly panicked. “I can’t—”

“Nah, I get it. You don’t have to,” Dean said. “Think it might help though.”

Sam shook his head again. 

“Okay. But do you think maybe you were just, y’know, hallucinating whatever it was? Like with the withdrawal stuff?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know?”

Sam gave him an exasperated look. 

“Look, Sam, I’m not trying to be pushy. I just wanna figure out what’s wrong here.”

Sam’s hands went back yanking at the threads of the quilt, but they were twitching too badly to do any real damage. He was quiet for a long time. “I really don’t know,” he said at last. “The water…it just…”

“It what?” Dean asked, desperate. “Look, we don’t have to talk about it again, I promise. And you don’t gotta get into the gory details. But come on, just help me out here, okay? Give me something. Anything.”

“The water was burning.” His voice was nearly inaudible. “I couldn’t breathe.”

Dean winced. 

Yeah, that explained a lot. 

But worse than that, he also knew that Sam wasn’t telling him the half of it, seeing as he still refused to say a word about Bristol.

“I’m sorry.”

Sam nodded, eyes still a million miles away. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

“And thanks for…you know, finding me.” 

“Sure thing. Kinda what I do, right?”

Sam managed a small smile. “Yeah, something like that.”

“So...why would any of this be happening to you now? I mean, whether it’s the blood thing again or, y’know, the Wall, still doesn’t explain why either one of ‘em would be hitting you so hard tonight. I mean, you haven’t been…”

“What?”

“Scratching?”

“No.”

“You sure.”

“Yes. I know what’ll happen, Dean,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “I _saw_. Remember?”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered. “Sorry.”

“’S okay.” In a vain attempt to get his hands to be still, he shoved them into his pockets, and then leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling fan and looking completely spent. 

“Think I know what the problem might be, though.”

“What?”

“Try an out-of-body experience.”

“What do you mean, out-of-body?”

“I _mean_ , taking up temporary residence in the meatsuits of two b-list TV actors.”

Dean thought about it. “No, wait. That was still _us_ , Sam. We jumped through a portal, right? Okay, granted, a weird space-time-continuum-type-deal into some really, _really_ backwards, perverted, screwed-up alternate reality where I was in friggin’ _Days of our Lives,_ but still, it was real, and the portal was real, and we’re real, so why wouldn’t it be us? We’re still real.”

“But we weren’t real _there_ , Dean.”

 “Oh.” Not like that was the most important issue at stake right now, but still, it was pretty damn irritating, not being _real._ Even in a fucked-up place like that. “So what, we got shoved inside those two clowns’ noggins because there wasn’t any other place to stick us?” Well, that was disconcerting, to say the least.

“I think so. I mean, obviously our souls came with us, and thoughts and memories and stuff too. Don’t think our bodies did, though.”

“Wait, I thought you said the whole thing coulda just been one long, angel-induced acid trip anyway, right?” God, he hoped so. “What’d be the point in ripping us out of our bodies if they coulda just messed with our heads?”

“I thought so too…” He shoved one of his sleeves up, revealing a thin white scar running up the inside of his forearm. “…at first. But these weren’t there in that world.” 

_ These  _ meant the long, matching scars that ran up and down the length of both Sam’s arms from where the ghouls wearing the faces of Adam and his mother had tried to bleed him dry. And unlike when Cas had raised Dean, these had come to Hell and back with him, as had every other scar he’d ever collected in his life. Therein lay another difference between being raised by an angel and being raised by a demon.

“And we were both wearing stage makeup, remember?” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

“Anyway, yeah. I really don’t think that was us. Not physically, at least. I mean, if it had been us, and the whole thing was just in our heads, that meant that Virgil would’ve still been Virgil, too. It would’ve taken more than a mind trick to disarm him. He wouldn’t have needed a gun to try to blow our heads off.”

“Oh. Yeah, good point. But what does this have to do with _this_ then?” he gestured generally at Sam.

“No demons, Dean. No angels. No Hell. No Heaven. You said so yourself. Not in that world. And no demons means—”

“No demon blood,” Dean said, realization dawning. “You didn’t have to deal with that, did you?” 

Sam shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

Dean felt a pang of regret. “What was that like?”

“To be honest?” He looked wistful. “Awesome. Disconcerting at first, because I didn’t really trust it, you know? But…” he shook his head. “I usually just ignore it, and I got pretty good at it. And the only time I absolutely couldn’t handle it was…uh, well, Famine, but other than that, it was always just sort of on the backburner.” 

“And it was gone?” Okay, more than just a pang of regret now…

“Yeah. Completely. Not just like there wasn’t anything around to want, but like…I don’t know, like I’d never wanted it at all. And when we got back, it was…Well, it was there again. And it was…” he chuckled humorlessly. “It’s hard again. _Really_ hard.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Dean wasn’t sure what to say; it wasn’t like words alone were going to make any of this any easier on him. 

Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try. “Look,” he said, resting a hand on Sam’s blanket-covered knee. “You just gotta give yourself time, okay? It’ll get easier again.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath wet bangs.

 Dean smiled apologetically. “Yeah, probably not what you wanna hear right now, but still true. Stick it out, it’ll get easier.”

“Thanks,” he murmured, but he sounded dejected. His eyes slid back up at the ceiling fan, apparently following the blades with his eyes. “And the Wall?”

Dean stiffened slightly in his seat. “What about it?”

“That one’s not gonna get easier, is it.”

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“It was gone, Dean. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but I think that when we went to wherever we were, the Wall and everything behind it couldn’t come with me. Maybe it was too damn big to cram inside this Jared guy’s head. Or maybe it’s because the whole thing just wasn’t real in that world, and that’s why none of the memories could come with, ‘cause why would I need to not remember something that doesn’t even exist in that reality? I mean, no Hell, no Wall, right?”

Dean was almost afraid to ask. “Did you feel any different?”

“I felt like my brain finally fit inside my skull.”

Oh.

“Oh.”

His eyes flicked to Dean’s. “Yeah.”

“So…what, you’re thinking you just got slammed hard with both of ‘em at the same time just ‘cause you’d gone a few days without having to deal with them?”

“I think so.”

“And the burning thing?” he added hesitantly. 

“Weird combination of both, maybe?” Sam guessed tiredly. 

“Damn.” The sight of his brother in this state—bruised-looking eyes fighting to stay open, the awful pallor of his skin, the sheer resignation in his voice—made him wonder whether “acting” wasn’t such a bad gig, after all. “Look, you just need to take it easy for awhile, okay? Get your feet back on the ground. It’ll be fine, I promise.” 

“And if the angels kickstart another apocalypse under our noses and this Mother-thing comes and rips the lid off purgatory and all the monsters go free?” He looked unconvinced. “Not so fine, Dean.”

“Well you’re no good to anybody like this, Sam.”

He glowered. “I know that.”

“I didn’t—” Dean started. “Come on, man, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How’d you mean it, then?”

“Look,” Dean said slowly. “This is _not_ your fault. None of it is. Got it?”

“Well if I can’t get any of it the hell under control—”

Yeah, on top of everything else, leave it to Sam to beat himself up about it.

“A week,” Dean said. “Please. Just give yourself a week. And control’s gonna come back, I swear. You can research and research ‘till your eyeballs fall out in the meantime for all I care, but seriously, what do we really know about the little Raphael-brigade, anyway? Thanks to Cas, a big steaming pile o’ nothing. And until Her Beastliness decides to make another appearance, we got squat on her too. So calm the hell down, okay?” 

“Dean—”

“A week,” he pleaded. “That’s all I’m asking, Sammy. And we’ll figure this out.”

And at that, the skepticism on Sam’s face melted into something that Dean felt like he hadn’t seen in an eternity, one more reason Dean was so freaking glad that Terminator-Sam was dead and gone— 

Trust. 

Trust in spite of himself, trust no matter what conclusion all the facts may add up to. 

Sam nodded. “Alright,” he said softly.

Dean smiled. “Awesome. We’ll talk to Bobby about it tomorrow.”

“Speaking of Bobby,” Sam asked, stifling a yawn, “’M a little surprised we didn’t wake him up with all this.”

“Are you kidding?” Dean shook his head. “That man could drown out the friggin’ Daytona 500 with those snores.”

“Yeah, good point.”

 And he’s downstairs anyway, it’s not like we’re _that_ loud.” Bobby still hadn’t moved from the room he’d had to move to during his stint in the wheelchair.

“So I’m _not_ a drunk rhino then?” Sam asked, pulling the blanket up to his chest and lying down.

“Not completely,” Dean conceded. “Oh, by the way…”

“What?” 

“I almost forgot.” He rubbed his hands together in what he took to be an evil gesture. “So yeah, I got kinda bored while we were back at actor-you’s mansion looking for all those ritual ingredients…”

“And?” 

“I figured I’d poke around on Wikipedia, look you up. Y’know, do some research, find me some blackmail gold to get back at you for forcing me to watch myself in a soap.”

“ _And_?”

“Dude,” he said, unable to keep a straight face any longer, “Your ‘filmography’ or whatever? A couple shit horror movies, a Disney movie about _dolphins_ , and some inspirational crap about that guy who paints those ugly rainbow cottages.”

Sam winced. “Really?”

“Really,” Dean declared victoriously.

 “Wow.” Sam made a face. “Yeah…sorry I made fun of you.”

“Oh, but there’s more.” 

“Does there have to be?”

He smirked. “Oh yeah. You banged a Gilmore Girl, _and_ made out with the Olsen twins.”

A groan. “Which one?”

“Does it matter?”

Sam grinned and closed his eyes.

*End*  



End file.
